


Tumbling Down

by Glittermonkey (Schizanthus)



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-03-15
Updated: 2001-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-14 03:50:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schizanthus/pseuds/Glittermonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wistful vignette with latent homicidal tendencies. Violence, coarse language, and gratuitous mention of monkeys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Posted to ff.net back in 3/15/2001.

**RAINBOW THEATRE - ROOFTOP - MORNING - 1975**

Arthur Stewart was quite possibly having the happiest morning of his entire short existence. Therefore, it was agreed by divine judgement that he should pay dearly for it. Life sucks that way.

Everything around him seemed surreal. A little fuzzy, a little woozy, and above all, insanely amusing. Maybe it was from the 'shrooms last night, but he doubted it. For the first time in his life, everything made sense. He was meant to be where he was and what he was. There was this new sense of comfortable rightness in every action that he took. And from that came freedom. If it wasn't such a horribly flaky thing to admit, he'd say he was high on life.

He giggled as he watched Curt taking a piss over on the other side of the roof. Curt Wild, the infamous rock legend who had been so influential in Arthur's not-long-departed adolescence, stepped off the magazine pages and made human to him by some act of fate or luck. Even now, in the rapidly brightening wash of morning light, he managed to look trashily resplendent in those tight silver trousers and a mop of tousled cornsilk hair. Arthur rolled over on the ratty mattress, closed his eyes, and flung his arms wide to catch the sun. He giggled some more.

* * *

 

From the recessed staircase which led to the rooftop sanctuary, a bystander continued to watch. He'd been there for quite some time now, but couldn't seem to bring himself to intrude upon this little scene of perfectly mundane contentment. It was rather like watching a pair of street pigeons nesting in the eaves of one's house. Entertaining enough to while away some time with - almost as interesting as a National Geographic nature special. But eventually, the vermin would have to be disposed of for the good of all involved. He knew that the time for that would come soon enough.

* * *

 

Having finished his business, Curt sidled back over to the mattress and regarded Arthur's prone form with a sad little smile. He didn't actually remember the kid's name, of course, but the face - blissful in repose, innocent and smooth - reflected a kaleidoscope of others from different times, different places. It was the face of a million and one groupies, of a multitude of drug-addled star-struck drifter children who had found in him some sort of greater truth worth clinging to. He reached down and gently rubbed away the last traces of lipstick, a crimson smudge on the kid's chin. It had been Brian's face. Curt tilted his head to one side, his smile becoming lopsided as he watched Arthur open his eyes. And - a very long time ago - it had been his own.

"Ahem."

Curt and Arthur both turned their heads simultaneously towards the sound which had so annoyingly impinged upon their peace. It turned out to be coming from the owner of the impatiently tapping platformed boot that had been standing in front of them, unnoticed, for the better part of the last fifteen seconds.

"As much as it pains me to break such an idyllic little moment of complete bliss," Brian's saccharine voice intoned, "I must."

Arthur felt Curt stiffen beside him as the intruder took another step toward them.

"Hello, Curt," Brian sounded more hesitant now. "You're looking... well."

Curt sat up, his brow furrowed as he regarded their visitor; a dozen different emotions brewed in his eyes. He settled for bewilderment. "You're... here," He stopped to think. "You were here? Last night?"

Brian sat down at the edge of the mattress, picking at an imaginary thread. After a few moments, he nodded. Then turned his attention to the brick walls of the rooftop, the billowing smoke of the chimneys, the thick film of dust and soot that covered the ground... everything and anything suddenly seemed immensely more fascinating to look at than Curt's face. His gaze, intent on avoidance, abruptly lit on Arthur.

"Hi, kid." Brian studied the boy with something akin to curiosity, puzzled recognition slowly giving way to mild amusement. He reached over and brushed the light sprinkle of blue powder off Arthur's shoulders. Wide brown eyes followed his every move with awed wonder. "Nice hair," he nodded to Arthur. "Going out of style, you know."

Clearing his throat, Curt turn to Arthur while never taking his eyes off of Brian. "Maybe you should go," he said. "We have to talk."

The compulsion to meet Curt's questioning gaze too much to resist, Brian finally looked up. He gave a tentative smile. "Yes, lots to talk about."

Arthur got the distinct feeling that he had just been dismissed. He glanced back at the pair as he pulled on his shirt. Outright forgotten, even. And while he knew he should just go quietly, he couldn't help but feel a little indignant. He pulled on his left boot, watching them continue to just stare, as if they'd never really seen eachother before. He pulled on his right boot and took a step towards the exit. He shouldn't say anything. He really shouldn't. He turned back before he could even process his own actions, and was horrified to hear himself blurt out, "You really think it's going to work this time, eh?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Curt blinked and frowned at him.

Taking a step back and still not quite believing what he was saying, but now quite certain it should be said, Arthur continued. "Well, look at your history! It's clear that this is only going to end badly again. Both of you are incredibly needy individuals who obviously need more care and attention than either is capable of giving because you are both so intent on getting your own ways! It's a disaster waiting to happen. A vicious cycle."

Brian gave Curt a "where did you pick up *this* one?!" look. Curt frowned again. "Look, I really think we can handle this. Please go."

Arthur snorted. "I'm just warning you. Sometimes it's much easier to see what's going on when you're watching than actually living. And I've been watching this go on for as long as you two have been together."

"You really should mind your own business," Brian interjected. "We can live our own lives just fine. The door is right over there."

"Don't you realize this *is* my business? The minute your affair went public, your fans became as invested in it as yourselves. You owe us some sort of closure."

An amazed and outraged stare from Curt. "Get out. Now."

"Stalker geek," Brian muttered under his breath.

"Perverted slut," Arthur retorted.

"Pathetic wannabe sheep."

"Space queen."

"You look like a trained baboon."

"Actually, I rather think I look more like a capuchin monkey, if you please."

"Stop it, you two, just stop it!" Arthur and Brian both turned and gave Curt big-eyed puppy dog looks.

Taking a deep breath, Brian backed down and took Curt's hand. "Come on, Curt. Let's get out of here." He shook his head and started for the door.

"And for the record," Arthur called after them, "your singing is shrill and your eyes do a funny receding pit thing when you stand in strong lighting. So there."

"Why you little..." Before Curt could restrain him, Brian launched himself at Arthur, knocking the surprised boy to the ground.

Pulling himself back up, Arthur wiped the dust off of his face and grimaced. Taking a running leap, he lunged for the pansy ass rock star with a murderous gleam. He ardently wished for a chainsaw.

Brian took a dainty step to one side, adeptly avoiding the clearly insane fanboy. Unfortunately, Arthur kept going, his momentum unchecked, until he tripped on a large piece of gravel and went flying over the edge of the roof.

Silence descended on the early morning scene. Brian blinked. Curt blinked. They carefully stepped to the edge and looked down, ready to cringe.

"Damn."

"Yeah."

"Let's get out of here."

"Good idea."

Hand in hand, they quickly fled the scene.

-finis-

 


	2. EPILOGUE

**LONDON HOSPITAL - LATE MORNING**   
**ST. DYMPHNA'S WARD FOR THE MENTALLY DISTURBED - 1975**

Quietly cracking open the door to room 1013, the tidily-dressed man in gray pinstripes took in his surroundings in mute fascination and horror. Snaking their way around the large central cot, countless plastic tubes of various unidentifiable liquids and gases created a seemingly impenetrable web around the unmoving patient within. To his surprise, the electronic monitor off to one side showed a steady heartbeat. Still not quite convinced, he took another look at the address neatly penned into his day planner. Shaking his head, he rang the bell for attendance.

Before very long, an little bald man in a white doctor's coat - wielding a walking stick and sporting far more hair in his ears than anyone should - arrived. The visitor eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then reached into his vest pocket and offered his business card to the elderly physician.

"My name is Hugo B. Sloss, sir, and I'm the official legal representation for Bijou Records and Brian Slade in particular. My client seems to have an abnormal interest in this man, though I don't understand why. All newspaper and police reports specify that it was quite obviously a suicide, and the only connection seems to be that the fellow over there," he nodded in the general direction of the bed, "was at a rock concert the night before he decided to try his little experiment in unassisted aeronautics."

"Perhaps your client is just interested in the welfare of a devoted fan, Mr. Sloss. At any rate, please come in. I'll show you his charts."

The lawyer followed the doctor as he shuffled over to the foot of the bed and grabbed a thick clipboard of notes.

"But doctor, there is one small discrepancy which continues to puzzle me. I was under the impression that you certified the patient dead at the scene of the accident? I came over here fully expecting to find a corpse."

"Well... yes. But he got better."

There was a moment of slightly confused silence.

"How is that possible?" Sloss finally ventured.

The doctor let out a mad little giggle as he paged through his chart.

"Funny thing, that. He sort of... bounced. At a very odd angle, no less. Defied all sorts of physical laws. But I assure you, he's quite alive now. Want to see?"

"Well, it isn't necessary. I'm sure I can just take your word on that."

"Nonsense, dear man. Come over here. I know you're curious."

Cautiously, Sloss stepped over next to the doctor and peered under the sheet that had been lifted slightly with morbid intrigue. What he saw made him wince.

The doctor made a tsk-ing sound under his breath. "He'll live, but he won't be pretty. We think he might even have sustained some sort of brain damage - there's at least partial amnesia and he's been muttering strange things about simians and nail guns and duct tape and glitter. All very odd. "

The lawyer nodded and quickly made his way back to the door. Fumbling with the clasps, he finally got his briefcase open and pulled out a fat envelope, which he shoved at the doctor.

"Here you go, doctor. Please see that your patient receives this when he... regains consciousness. My client, generous man that he is, will pay all the hospital expenses. In this packet is enough money for him to start a new life anywhere he wishes. Also included is a one-way ticket to New York, and directions to a job interview should your patient decide he's interested in working in America. It seems that my client pulled a couple of strings with one of his record producers, who owns a newspaper subsidiary out that way... At any rate, I'm sure Mr. Stewart will have no problem resuming a fully productive lifestyle, despite his... unfortunate circumstance."

Giving the creepy little doctor what he hoped passed for a smile, Sloss backed out the door and hurriedly made his way out of the hospital, not bothering to look back the entire way.

-finis. really.-

**Author's Note:**

> Those of you that know me know that I have a problem with Arthur. Some might even label it a phobia. In any case, this story had been bobbing around in my head for a few months, but I had been afraid to give it life, lest I upset the large Arthurian following in our midst. However, based on the support and goading of a handful of lovelies who shall remain anonymous for their protection, I finally decided to go ahead and throw it out anyway. Lord help us all.
> 
> References made and apologies to the following... X-Files. Yoda. Chasing Amy. Monty Python. Gormenghast. American Psycho. I think that's it. Hee.


End file.
